


To Die For

by johnedandsherlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Ghosts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 07:38:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1379365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnedandsherlocked/pseuds/johnedandsherlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is dead, leaving Sherlock all alone in Baker Street. But Sherlock isn't ready to let go of him yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Die For

**Author's Note:**

> This is just angst, ok. Make sure you know what you signed up for my friends.

It had been six months exactly since the funeral. Six months and four days since the death of John Hamish Watson.  
It had also been five months and twenty-seven days since anybody had caught sight of Sherlock Holmes.

 

\---

 

"Sherlock, I know you're upset, but you really do need to get out," an exasperated DI Lestrade called into the door. "I haven't seen you in months!"  
The door remained locked. Only the slight sound of shuffling feet came from behind it.  
Lestrade huffed a sigh and took out a key he had ever so politely asked the landlady downstairs for.

"Oh, fuck."  
The room was a mess; everything once stacked in neat piles was thrown to the floor, unwashed dishes and mugs set everywhere, the room was filled with dust and a foul smell. And in the corner of the room, on his respected chair, sat Sherlock. His knees clutched to his chest, curly hair wildly sticking out everywhere.  
"Sherlock..." Lestrade spoke softy, making his way over to him. "You alright?"  
"No, I'm not. Of course I'm not."  
He curled up tighter.  
"Why, Lestrade? Why did it have to be him?"  
His voice was thin and soft.  
"That was his fate, I guess." The DI shrugged, putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.  
"I don't believe in fate."  
Lestrade shook his head in disbelief.  
"At least I know you're still alive," he sighed, and left the flat.

 

\---

 

Sherlock treaded over to his bedroom and locked the door. The room was cold; white puffs of breath appeared from his lips.  
"Good morning, John." He whispered.  
There lying in his bed was the body of the late John Watson. His body was rigid, skin pale and sullen, and, well, dead.  
Sherlock kissed the cold cheek and fixed his hair.

So many months and Sherlock couldn't let go.

Five months and twenty-three days ago, Sherlock stole John Watson's body from his grave. He took it home, set the special thermostat he set up in the bedroom, and lay John on the bed.

He's just sleeping, Sherlock would tell himself. He's going to wake up, give me a big kiss, and we can live together forever.

When Sherlock takes the drugs, he can see John breathing.  
He was his Sleeping Beauty, and he was the brave prince that would awaken him from the long slumber.

Sherlock forgot to eat. He didn't have a John that would remind him to do so. Mrs. Hudson would leave some sandwiches once a week, but Sherlock never ate them. He'd take them and see how many different patterns of the insides he could make, then pick at them, and leave the plate outside the door empty, but with the sandwiches in the bin.

Mrs. Hudson knew not to interrupt Sherlock at a time like this, but she worried that Sherlock needed to be out at least once a week or so. She knocked on the door.  
"I'm not hungry," said a voice from behind.  
"Sherlock, darling," she said. "You really do need to get out, it isn't healthy. Why don't you set your mind on something else for a change?"  
There was a pause, a slight shuffle, then a low growl.  
"No thanks, Mrs. Hudson."  
"Would you at least like some tea?" She asked.  
The door opened slightly, and an arm shot out from between. It grabbed the cup and slithered back behind the closing door.  
"Thank you."

 

\---

 

Sherlock was always thin, but he was never this thin. He had dark circles under his eyes and it was becoming harder to move his body. The drugs were starting to wear off quicker, and Sherlock needed to take more and more.  
With the drugs, he felt like John's cheeks held color, his eyelids would flutter, and that his chest would rise and fall like he was just asleep. He needed it. He couldn't bear without it.

The former consulting detective would spend hours on end with John. He'd talk to him and kiss his hands and hold them softly. Sherlock only waited for the day that John would say something, kiss him, or hold his hand back.

 

\---

 

It happened months later. He left the heavy duvet he always wore in the bedroom aside; his arms too weak to do much now. He sat by the body's side and whispered "I love you," with each fading breath.

Finally, he felt a warm hand upon his own.  
"Sherlock Holmes you stupid git."  
It was a voice he had missed for so long.  
"John...!"  
"You have to let go, Sherlock. I know you miss me, and I miss you, but it's too early for you. Please, just live, alright?"  
Sherlock was in tears; he tried to hold the hand upon his, but he couldn't.  
"No, John. I need you. Please let me be with you."  
"I'll always be with you. I'll stand by you until your last breath," the ghost of John spoke quietly. "But now isn't the time. Live for me, Sherlock."

The thin man then lost consciousness and lost John once more.  
He woke up outside the bedroom door, somehow having dragged himself out without remembering. He stared at the hand John had touched last and put it against his lips.

At the door was some food Mrs. Hudson left before she headed off to her daughter's home for the holidays.  
The tea was cold and the biscuits were hard, but he took the tray and ate. For the first time in ages he put food in his mouth.

Later that month, Sherlock Holmes would return John to his grave. He'd throw the drugs out and retort to nicotine patches. It was a long process, but it was easier than what he had done before. He finally let go. But not in his heart.  
In his heart, there would be John encouraging him to do better, "for me" he'd always say.

 

\---

 

Five months and fifteen days later, Sherlock stepped outside to take a case from Lestrade he hadn't been offered yet. His appearance was much better than before. His ribs still showed, but that wasn't as much of a problem anymore.  
He'd slipped on one of John's old jumpers; the cream-coloured, cable-knit one Sherlock always adored. It was too big in some areas and too short in others, but he wore it anyways. It was covered by his long coat and nobody would notice.

Mrs. Hudson was so happy she saw Sherlock walking down the steps that she gave him a hug before leaving.

The people at the crime scene were shocked to see him out and about again. Lestrade was without words. The DI closed his open mouth, and gave his old friend a hug.  
Sherlock invited himself in, striding with his long legs, and crouched by the dead body. He smirked as he deduced, and smiled at the surprised faces of the yard as he left the scene.

 

Fifteen months and three days after John's death, Sherlock Holmes was once again the world's only consulting detective.  
He would stay that way for years more, until he quit the job.

 

He'd move to a quiet house in the country, keeping bees and making honey. He was that strange old man children would talk about and make stories about. How he probably had dead bodies in his fridge, or that he doesn't eat nor sleep, or he can read your mind. The children weren't completely wrong, but Sherlock would tell them otherwise.

He lived a solitary life until the end.  
An old man alone in his home, quietly falling to death in his sleep.

"I missed you, John."  
"You've lived a wonderful life."  
"It would've been better with you there."  
"I was always beside you, Sherlock."  
"Thank you for letting me live, John. I love you."  
"I love you too. Now, it's time for us to go."

Five hundred and forty nine months after the death of John Hamish Watson, Sherlock Holmes died peacefully in his sleep.

He lived a solitary life, but he was never alone.


End file.
